The Mayfair Murder
by BasicallyRun
Summary: A young man is found dead in a deserted house.
1. Chapter 1

**The Mayfair Murder**

**Chapter One**

As I read through my notes pertaining to the cases of my singular friend, Sherlock Holmes, I occasionally find one of such peculiarity that it seems almost criminal not to share it with the public. Such was the case of the Mayfair Murder. Although it took place some years ago, I can recall it with perfect clarity.

It was on an unseasonably warm March day that Inspector Lestrade burst into our Baker Street rooms. Holmes, utterly focused on whatever vital experiment he was performing, merely waved an impatient hand towards a chair and otherwise ignored the interruption. I offered the man a sympathetic grimace as he subsided into the chair. He and his fellow Yarders had learnt to tolerate my friend's brusque manner in return for the invaluable insight Holmes could bring to a case.

However, five minutes had scarcely elapsed before Lestrade exclaimed, "Mr. Holmes, I'm aware that you're an extremely busy man, but would it be too much to trouble you with a matter of life and death?"

With a sigh, Holmes tenderly set down the beaker he was holding. "Not at all, Inspector," he said courteously. "It really is a trifling matter, simply a case of confirming my theory. Ah!" He glanced at the beaker. "As I suspected! If you'll just permit me to make a note of the results?" He scribbled briefly on a piece of paper already covered with numerous other jottings before turning and fixing the Inspector with that piercing gaze that was already so familiar. "Now, Inspector, how may I assist you in the case of poor Simon West?"

That Holmes had once again made the correct deduction was obvious from Lestrade's expression of mingled exasperation and admiration. He seemed determined to retain some dignity, however, and kept resolutely silent.

"All right, Holmes," I said, laying aside my book. "How did you know?"

"Simplicity itself, my dear Watson," he replied. I waited patiently for him to elaborate. "Observe the grains of sand that still adhere to the good Inspector's shoes. An unusual colour, wouldn't you say? I know for a fact that only one building firm in London uses sand of that particular hue. I also happen to know that this firm is at present working in the Mayfair district. From my perusal of this morning's papers I can tell you that a young man by the name of Simon West has been found in a Mayfair house, stabbed through the heart. It is not really so extraordinary to assume that the two are connected."

By the time he had finished, both Lestrade and I were chuckling at the ease with which he managed to confound us. Then the police officer seemed to recall the urgency of his mission

"You are quite right, Mr. Holmes. Briefly, the facts are these: at around six o'clock last night, a Mrs. Jamieson discovered the body of a young man in full evening dress, stabbed through the heart and lying stretched out in the best bedroom of No. 11, Finisterre Street. He had been dead at least eight hours, according to our doctor. As far as we can ascertain, there is not a trace of a clue to his killer, nor anything to hint at what he might have been doing in the house at that time."

"And very naturally you have come to see what light I may shed on the case." Holmes reached out a hand for his pipe. While he lit it, he continued, "But tell me, who is Mrs. Jamieson? How came she to make this grotesque discovery?"

"A local lady who 'does' for the owners of the house – the Penridge family, by the way – while they are abroad."

"Penridge, Penridge," said Holmes musingly. "I don't seem to recollect the name?"

"No reason why you should," returned Lestrade. "By all accounts they're a perfectly respectable lot. There's Mr. and Mrs. Penridge, he a Government man and she a Society beauty, and their daughter Catherine, all currently holidaying in Paris. There's also a son but he's serving abroad at present. We wired his commanding officer and that's all as it should be."

"Excellent," Holmes replied with a distracted air. I could see him turning the problem over in his mind. Suddenly, he appeared to come to a decision. "Come, Watson," he called as he rose from his chair. "To Finisterre Street!"

Following his directions had already become something of a habit, but even had it not I should still have been intrigued by this dark business. Pausing only to snatch up my hat, Lestrade and I pursued Holmes' angular figure down the steps.

______


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I do not know exactly what I expected to find at No. 11; possibly something out of a penny dreadful complete with blood running from under the door. In the event, it proved to be an elegant townhouse, painted white and with such an innocent appearance as to deceive the viewer entirely.

Holmes immediately bounded from our cab and, with his usual meticulous care, began to examine the path. It was easy to see from his expression that the paving stones had yielded little though, and soon he turned his attentions to the house itself.

With cautious, precise steps, he made his way to the sole ground floor window. After regarding it intently for some minutes, he beckoned to Lestrade. "Is there another window on the ground floor?" he asked.

"Well, yes," said the Inspector, doubtfully. "There's a little walled courtyard round the back of the house. But the windows there only look in on the scullery. They're far too small for a man to climb through."

"Very well. I should nevertheless like to examine them; it never does to neglect a possible line of enquiry."

On reaching the back courtyard however, we saw that Lestrade was perfectly correct. There were but two windows, each of maybe six by ten inches, and set so high in the wall that it was surely impossible for even a monkey to have gained entry by them. Holmes looked them over, but shook his head in dissatisfaction and turned away after only a short time.

"In which case," said he, "I would be grateful if you would take me to Mrs. Jamieson. She is still on the premises, is she not?"

"Oh yes," said Lestrade. "I believe one of our officers is with her in the kitchen. This way."

"Wait a moment," rapped out Holmes, seizing Lestrade's sleeve. "The door. I daresay it will do little good now half the population of London has let themselves in through it, but I should still like to have a look."

So saying, he drew out his magnifying lens and scrutinised the wood. With a sharp cry of excitement, he plucked at something caught on a screw.

"Look here, Inspector, Watson."

Obediently we stared at the fibre he held in his hand. It appeared to be a scrap of some black material.

"No doubt I am being very foolish, but I simply can't see the significance of it," I remarked.

"Surely you see? If the house has truly been left abandoned this past month, there would be no need for anyone to touch the handle."

"But it could be a friend calling on the Penridges who didn't know they were abroad," I pointed out.

"Or Mrs. Jamieson," added Lestrade.

"Possibly," admitted Holmes, "but if it's all the same to you, I would prefer to hang on to it. And since you mention Mrs. Jamieson, pray lead me to that excellent lady."

As Lestrade had predicted, we found her in the kitchen, clasping a cup of tea under the sympathetic eye of a constable.

"Mrs. Jamieson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Lestrade. "He has been kind enough to offer some assistance with a few points of the case."

"Afternoon, sirs," murmured Mrs. Jamieson in a subdued voice. I would say that this was not her natural tone; her flamboyant dress suggested a somewhat brasher character. I also noted that she was not wearing a single black article. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too had observed this, but could tell nothing from his face.

"I understand that you discovered the body," he began. "Would you please tell us in your own words how that came about?"

The lady drew in a deep breath and launched into her tale.

"Well, I come in every Thursday to keep an eye on the place, as you might say, and keep it all looking presentable for when the family gets back. Usually about four-ish, but I was delayed up at old Mr. Porter's, round the corner from here. Coming in though, I thought to meself, 'Something's up here.' I'm sure I couldn't tell you _why_ I thought that, but anyway, I thought I'd better have a look around, make sure everything was right. I thought they might be after the silver. Mr. Penridge has some very nice pieces. I've often told him he should stick 'em in the safe when he goes away, but he doesn't listen to me.

Anyway, I'd gone round all the downstairs rooms and everything looked as it should, so off I went upstairs. Gave me the fright of my life it did when I opened the door to Mr. Penridge's room. There he was, and he looked as though he might be resting almost, except there was this 'orrible red stain on his chest. None on the floors mind you. Just on him and on the bed. Oh, I can still see it now!" She gave a hitching sob and fell silent.

"I'm sure it must have been a terrible shock for you, Mrs. Jamieson," I said, as kindly as I could.

"Oh yes, quite terrible indeed," said Holmes hastily. "But tell me, when you first entered the house was the door locked?"

She looked up at him, an expression of dawning comprehension on her face.

"No, Mr. Holmes," she whispered. "No, it wasn't. And I remember wondering whether I'd get the blame for leaving it unlocked if thieves had made off with anything."

"Do you think you had left it unlocked?" he asked.

"N-no," she said hesitantly. "I mean, I can't remember locking it, but I'm sure I did."

"Please think very carefully," said Holmes in his most serious voice. "If you locked it then we must assume that whoever brought poor Mr. West here was in possession of a key. There were none of the scrapes one associates with a lock pick on the keyhole. If you did not lock it then any person in London could have had access. Of course, I may find other clues to direct me to the murderer, but some way of narrowing things down would be welcome."

A frown crinkled the good lady's brow.

"I think…" she began slowly. "I think… I'm almost certain I _did_ lock it."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Lestrade eagerly. With a smile, Holmes held up his hand to silence him as Mrs. Jamieson continued.

"Yes, I feel quite sure now. I remember last time I came, I dropped the key at least twice before I managed to get it in the lock. My hands were cold," she said apologetically.

"Ah! Perhaps you had left your black gloves at home?"

"Black gloves? Oh bless you, no. I've got a nice red pair that my son gave me Christmas before last. I don't like black. Nasty, gloomy colour if you ask me." She shivered and her eyes widened as she took in my friend's sombre ensemble. "Not that there's anything wrong with it," she added hurriedly. "Good, practical colour…" She tailed off.

Holmes favoured her with one of his rare smiles that come and go as suddenly as the sun bursting from behind a cloud.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Jamieson. I have no doubt that your evidence will prove invaluable. If you wish, you may return home now. That is unless – Inspector?"

"Oh of course, Mrs. Jamieson. If you could just give your address to Constable Parker here before you leave."

Parker gallantly offered the lady his arm as he led her towards the door. Holmes watched them go with a curious expression.

"There goes a very strange woman, Watson. Did you notice that she does not wear a wedding ring, although she calls herself 'Mrs.'? No doubt there is some perfectly innocent explanation, though I rather fancy she has hidden depths."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Speaking of which, would you like to see the room where the body was found now?"

Holmes and I followed his lead until we reached the hallway. There, Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder and indicated that he would like to go ahead. He pointed to a small stain, just above the skirting board.

"Blood," he said shortly. "And more just here. I should say the man was not killed in the bedroom but rather dragged there afterwards. Let us go and take a look at the cadaver."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The body was not such a horrific sight as one might have believed. As Mrs. Jamieson had said, he did indeed look as though he was resting. His eyes were closed and his hands folded neatly across his breast. The only thing to mar this picture of peaceful repose was the blood-soaked bed linen that surrounded him.

As a medical man, I felt perfectly justified in stepping forward to examine the cadaver. I concurred with the police surgeon's estimate that the man had been dead since the previous morning, then fell to looking at the wound itself.

It is by no means as easy to stab someone through the heart as people think. For a start, the general public believes the heart to be much further to the left than it is in reality. Then there is also the small matter of the ribcage to negotiate. Practically speaking, it is usually far more effective to cut the throat. Whoever Simon West's murderer was, they were possessed of unnerving accuracy.

Holmes and Lestrade had now joined my study.

"A straight edged blade, maybe an inch in width," murmured Holmes. "Quite long, I think. There's no sign that it was rammed in up to the hilt."

"If you're finished here, Mr. Holmes, I think it would be as well to get poor Mr. West to a mortuary as soon as possible. It is after all a warm day."

"Out of interest, Inspector, how do you know his name is Simon West?" I asked.

"He still has a tailor's bill in one of his pockets and his cigarette case was engraved. Now let me think, what did it say? Oh yes: _To Simon, as true as any compass point. From your loving Cat._"

"Cat?" Holmes exclaimed sharply. "That is a shortening of Catherine, is it not?"

"Oh there's no mystery about that. I personally sent a telegram to the Penridges enquiring on that very point. It appears he and Miss Penridge were engaged to be married and the case was a gift from her."

"How very thorough of you, Lestrade. I think that I have seen all I need to here. If you don't mind, I should like to return to Baker Street to think it over."

Lestrade agreed that nothing more could be done here and summoned two of his constables to remove the body. Holmes and I returned in silence to Baker Street.

Once comfortably ensconced in his armchair, Holmes withdrew into one of his deep introspections. Knowing better than to interrupt one of these moods, I picked up a copy of _The Times_ and attempted to interest myself in the deeds of humanity. When I reached a column-inch to the effect that the Mayfair murderer was still unknown, I realised I would be unable to concentrate until the case was solved. Accordingly, I cast my mind back over the day's events.

I am ashamed to say that I could make neither head nor tail of them though, and the pleasant warmth of the day soon sent me into a doze, where masked assassins cavorted before my eyes and cats prowled amidst the shadows.

I was jerked abruptly out of my reverie by the arrival of Lestrade. His thin face was flushed with excitement and in his hand he clutched a triumphant piece of paper.

"See here, Mr. Holmes! A letter, signed Catherine Penridge," he exclaimed, thrusting it under my friend's nose. "We found it in the lining of West's coat."

Here I will take the liberty of reproducing the letter, as I have it to hand now.

_Dear Mr. West,_

_After the abominable way you have treated me, I beg leave to inform you that the engagement is, most emphatically, broken off. I am fully aware of the harm this will do my reputation, but do not think for one moment that this will deter me from my course. What care I for public ridicule when the alternative is marriage to a man who has neither love nor respect for me?_

_If you had to have dalliances with other women, could you not have used a little discretion? It is cruel enough to be treated in this fashion without half the world being aware. Upwards of ten people have, with the utmost tact, brought the matter to my attention. One I might have taken as malicious gossip, but ten! _

_As of this moment, I renounce you utterly. If you have any room in your heart for me, I ask only that you never see or speak to me again. Fly to the arms of your lady-friend, but I suspect that yours will not be a long and happy life. I pray nightly that the Lord will see fit to rend your heart as you have broken mine._

_I am no longer your,_

_Catherine Penridge_

Lestrade had been watching Holmes' face carefully throughout his perusal of the letter. Seeing him finished, he broke in, "What do you think of that? Damning stuff, I'd say."

"I thought you said the young lady was in Paris at the time," I objected. "She could hardly have escaped notice long enough to travel to England, murder Simon West, arrange the body in her own house – where, I might point out, suspicion would be certain to attach itself to the family – and get back to Paris without anyone remarking on her absence."

The Inspector looked disappointed, before brightening as he said, "But naturally, Doctor, her family would be anxious to prevent any hint of scandal. Of course they'd say she was with them if it meant preserving the family honour."

Holmes was still reading and rereading the letter through his lens. "Would you mind if I kept hold of this for a while, Lestrade?" he asked.

"Well it is evidence, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, apparently turning it over in his mind. "I suppose that it's of little use until we charge Miss Penridge though. Very well, on the condition that it does not leave this room. And mind, if it goes missing, you'll be the one explaining it to the Commissioner of Police."

"Fine," said Holmes, sweeping around to his desk where he proceeded to lock the letter away. "Watson, I believe I shall be out all afternoon; I have a few enquiries of my own to instigate. Inspector, if you would be so good as to call again tomorrow, I think I will be able to offer a solution to your little problem."

"Tomorrow?" burst out Lestrade. "This is a very serious investigation. No time should be lost! If you know anything about it, you must tell me immediately."

"As yet, I know nothing, I merely suspect. As I cannot act on unsubstantiated suspicion, certain questions need to be answered. I hope to have my answers by tomorrow. It will be little use calling on me before then, Inspector."

With a dejected expression, the man shuffled out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Holmes was as good as his word. He disappeared on the heels of the Inspector and had still not returned by the time Mrs Hudson came to enquire about dinner. Knowing full well my friend's unpredictable habits, I agreed that it would be best to simply set aside Holmes' food for whenever he returned.

Although I had intended to wait for him to get back, I think I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew, Holmes was watching me from his chair, as I lay slumped in my own.

"Watson, there was really no need to wait up for me," he admonished me gently when he saw that I was awake. "You may need every scrap of energy you possess if what I've heard from my informants is true."

"Oh? Tell me all," I said, struggling upright and attempting to smooth my hopelessly rumpled clothes.

"It will keep until Lestrade arrives. Now, were there any letters while I was out?"

"None for me, but there's a couple addressed to you on your desk," I told him.

His keen eyes lit up and he snatched eagerly at the letters. "Bills," he said disgustedly of the first and second, barely glancing at them. The third, however, occasioned rather more interest.

"From Catherine Penridge," he said, passing it to me. He reached into an inner pocket and produced the letter he had borrowed from Lestrade.

"Compare!" he instructed me. I did as I was told. Soon I began to arrive at the inescapable conclusion.

"Holmes," I said slowly, "these letters weren't written by the same person, were they?"

He convulsed with his customary silent laughter. "Don't tell me you've actually read one of my monographs?"

"Well, no. But it doesn't take an expert to tell you that the writing is completely dissimilar. This one," I said, tapping the new arrival, "is presumably the genuine one? And the other merely an elaborate bluff designed to trick us."

"Very good, Watson. Excellent, in fact. However, allow me to correct you just a little: the writing is not _entirely_ dissimilar. I can tell, for example, that both letters were written by young women, say around twenty years old. We shall see what the Inspector makes of it all when he arrives. Hah!"

So saying, he flung himself into an armchair and began to examine the papers. Some time later, Lestrade was shown in.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well, Inspector, I promised you results and I do believe I can deliver on that promise. This letter," he said, handing the genuine article to Lestrade, "arrived from Paris this morning. _This_ is the one you found, purporting to be from Miss Penridge."

"But they're utterly -"

"Quite. Where does that leave your case, Lestrade?"

"Dead in the water," said the other, shaking his head ruefully. "Although I suppose you have all the necessary answers?"

"I rather think I do. Watson, if you open the door, one of my Irregulars should be outside."

I did as he said and moments later one of Holmes's indispensable band of street urchins stood before us.

"If you would be so good, Martin, as to tell the Inspector what you told me earlier."

"Well, sir, we done what you asked. Hung 'round the big house for ages, but nobody came near. Adams knew one of the boys in the house across the road so we had a chat with him and he said that excepting the family, there'd only been one visitor recently, lady called Lucy Worthing. Her and Master Robert were stepping out together until she chucked him, or so he'd heard. That's why he went off to wherever he did."

Having finished his tale, Martin stood to attention, looking every bit the military scout reporting for duty.

"Well done," said Holmes, digging in his pocket for a coin to give the lad. "Did you have any luck in tracing Miss Worthing?"

"Yes, sir," replied Martin. "37, Wilton Crescent. Lives with her aunt and two cousins."

"Excellent. Come along, Watson! Lestrade, it might be advisable to bring some of your men in case of trouble."

"But Mr. Holmes! You can't charge 'round arresting people because they knew the family. Why, you may as well arrest the Cabinet, for they've all passed through that house at some time or another!"

"A valid point, Inspector," returned Holmes icily, and I could see how little he enjoyed having his methods questioned, "but does any member of the Cabinet possess a key to the front door? Miss Worthing does, as I learnt during a most intriguing conversation with a locksmith yesterday. There are other factors, which I would be more than happy to expatiate upon at length when we return."

"Well, I can't deny you've not steered us wrong yet, but I shall want a proper explanation later. It all has to go in these damned reports, you see."

"Lestrade, I will personally write out a report for you in my best copperplate script if it means you'll come with us now."

Ignoring any further protests and with a final injunction to me to bring my gun, Sherlock Holmes strode to the door and a moment later was instructing a cab to take us to Wilton Crescent, via Scotland Yard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

I could see Lestrade thought Wilton Crescent far too respectable an address for a murderess, from the doubtful glances he continued to throw at my companion. However, he had at least acquiesced to Holmes's demand for manpower and two expressionless constables accompanied us to the door.

A parlour maid informed us that Miss Worthing was otherwise engaged. Upon being told by Holmes that we would, if required, wait until Judgement Day, she showed us into a room and retired.

It seemed oddly unfurnished, as though the occupants had only just moved in. Holmes had, unsurprisingly, managed to sit in the only armchair, leaving Lestrade and myself perched awkwardly on a sofa. The two constables, presumably in deference to rank, loomed behind us. Fortunately, we had not long to wait for we soon heard voices outside the door.

The maid who had shown us in appeared to be trying to remonstrate with her mistress, but to no avail. The doors burst open and a young woman walked in. Now we saw the object of the maid's distress; the girl was attired in knee breeches and a shirt. While she did not seem to feel in the least self-conscious, I found myself keeping my eyes fixed firmly on her face.

Holmes, apparently, felt no such compunction. He surveyed her as coolly as he might an interesting chemical experiment while her sharp green eyes took in the constables' uniforms before returning his gaze. When she spoke, her voice was amused.

"Is this a fancy dress party?"

Lestrade stood up, bristling officiously. "Miss Lucy Worthing? We have a few questions we'd like to put to you, if you'd be so kind as to take a seat."

"No, thank you. I prefer to stand," she said with narrowed eyes.

"As you wish," said the Inspector, resettling himself on the sofa. "Now, were you acquainted with the late Mr. Simon West?"

"We were… we were friends," she replied.

Holmes, who had been sitting quietly with his eyes shut, lifted one lazy lid to interject, "Really, Miss Worthing? This dissemblance will do you no good, you know. If you think I am unaware that you loved Simon West – loved him with all your strong-willed heart – then you are very much mistaken. The truth, if you please."

"Very well. I loved him. I loved him and now he is dead, though I cannot see what business it is of yours, Mr. Holmes."

"I see you know my name. You should also realise that it is precisely my business to know the details of every sordid crime that comes to pass in this wretched city. I know in perfect detail the events that led to West's death. You see, you really have no choice but to tell us everything."

She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together.

"So you refuse," said Holmes, his voice dangerously quiet. "Perhaps, Inspector, it would interest you to learn that Miss Worthing is a most excellent fencer. Under the name of Frank Temple, she has become the leading light of a certain gentlemen's club. Was it as Frank Temple that you challenged Simon West to the duel that killed him?"

The sudden question startled the girl; she had clearly not been convinced by Holmes's claim to omniscience. Her poise lost, she began to stammer.

"I don't know what – That is complete -"

"It is the truth, as well you know."

"All right, since you seem to know everything already, I did it. I killed him and I'm glad!" She flung out the words in a defiant challenge, all fear gone.

"I doubt that very much, Miss Worthing," said Holmes. "In my experience, those who kill for love are the ones most tortured by their actions."

"How dare you presume to judge me, Mr. Holmes? You, who have never known love and the power it can have?"

Holmes's face had turned whiter even than usual. "And does it not occur to you, Miss Worthing, to ask yourself _why_ I do not love?"

The room seemed to still. Lestrade and his men froze their stealthy advance. Only the two lead players circled each other, partners in this strange dance of wits.

"I'm not sure I care to hear about your tragic past, Mr. Holmes. Your tragic future would be more to my taste!"

With a whooping cry, she spun around and snatched a thin, rapier-like blade from above the mantelpiece. With a thrill of horror, I realised this was without doubt the very weapon that had dispatched poor Simon West.

"I propose a duel, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If I win, you and all your lackeys will leave me alone, to live as I choose. If not… well, it shan't come to that."

Inspector Lestrade had drawn himself up indignantly at being called a lackey, and seemed on the verge of shooting Miss Worthing where she stood. At that moment, I would have scarcely cared if he had. This female monster had blighted the lives of so many innocents!

The girl gave a jeering laugh as she saw him. "Oh yes, Inspector! It would be so very sporting to shoot a girl with a sword. Not to mention saving your friend the trouble of getting spitted. Oh what's the matter?" she called teasingly to Holmes. "You don't want to hurt a poor, defenceless woman? No matter. I can see your friend Watson has forgotten his manners too."

She nodded towards my revolver in my clenched fists.

"Watson, please put the gun down," said Holmes gently and with such conviction that I found myself obeying him. "You too, Lestrade. Well, Miss Worthing, here I stand, facing you on your own terms. Might I be permitted a weapon?"

She nodded brusquely, apparently not believing how readily he had agreed to her demands. Holmes strode over to the mantelpiece and took down the pair of her own sword. Without another word, the two duellists adopted the _en garde_ position. With an ironic smile, Holmes performed a flourishing salute. Miss Worthing merely nodded.

Then began one of the most furious sword fights I have ever witnessed. I make no claim to understand the technical side of these things, but I can tell a master of the art when I see one. The two blades seemed to weave a cage of steel about the pair as Lestrade and I watched, powerless to intervene. While Holmes had by far the advantage of height, I would swear that the girl moved like some fey, ethereal being, dancing always just out of reach.

I could not begin to guess at how long the two remained locked in combat, only that it seemed an eternity to me. Please believe me when I say that I am no coward, and that only the deepest respect for my friend's abilities and my trust in his power to put things right kept me from rushing headlong into battle. At every moment, my mind's eye presented me with horrific visions of Holmes falling, pierced to the heart. I swore then that if Miss Worthing did best him, her and Holmes's agreement could go to blazes; I had my service revolver with me and I would be damned before I let such a villainess escape.

However, it appeared that once again I had underestimated Holmes's sheer strength of will. He seemed indifferent to any human considerations of pain, while Miss Worthing began to show signs of fatigue. Her hitherto graceful dodges became more and more laboured, barely clearing Holmes's blade.

With inexorable force, she was driven back into a corner where, with an elegant flick of his wrist, Holmes disarmed her.

"Yield?" he asked, in a voice as steely as his blade.

She nodded tightly, angrily, a veil of fury obscuring her features.

"The cuffs, Inspector, if you would be so kind," he called.

Lestrade stepped readily forward and snapped the handcuffs into place. As the metal touched her skin, all the fight and bravado died in her and she stood meekly until the two constables marched her away.

I almost expected Holmes to make one of his more cutting remarks about the dangers of love, but he too seemed drained by the fight. As we made our way back to Baker Street, he sat slumped in one corner of the cab, eyes closed as if to shut out the world.

While Sherlock Holmes is one of the strongest characters I have ever met, he does occasionally give me cause to worry. Not just for his physical health, though as a doctor his habits of both forgetting to eat and pushing himself to the point of exhaustion concern me gravely, but also for the mysterious processes of his mind. While he may insist that it is as perfectly ordered as a library, I could tell that his conversation with Miss Worthing, if conversation it could indeed be called, had left him severely shaken.

"Holmes, are you all right?" I asked, wincing at my clumsy attempt at sympathy.

It seemed he appreciated it though, for he turned his head to give me an approximation of a smile before sinking back into silent reverie. Neither of us spoke for the remainder of our journey.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Lestrade hesitated at the entrance to 221B, as if unsure whether he would be welcome. Holmes beckoned him inside with an impatient gesture.

"Really, Lestrade, there's no need to hover like an indecisive butterfly. Come upstairs, there's a good chap."

The Inspector gave a mournful sniff as he resigned himself to one of Holmes's lengthy expositions and shuffled up the stairs behind us. Holmes had settled himself into the armchair by the fire and waited, with hands clasped and forefingers on his lips, for us to sit down opposite.

When convinced he held our rapt attention, he began. "I'll own it must have seemed strange to you, Inspector, that I suddenly became Hell-bent on Miss Worthing as our murderer. In reality, it was not so abrupt as it seems. After a conversation with a local locksmith, I had managed to procure a comprehensive list of all the people with a key to No. 11. After that, it was simply a matter of elimination. Young Robert Penridge I dismissed out of hand; it was clearly impossible for him to have deserted his regiment in India without his commanding officer's knowledge. I also felt it highly unlikely, despite that letter, that Catherine Penridge had committed the crime, for much the reasons that you yourself, Watson, pointed out. And while it is not unknown for respectable Government men or Society beauties to commit murder, it is hardly believable that they would have placed the body in their own home, with such a wealth of contacts available to them.

"No, the family was innocent. This begs the question: why was the body discovered in their house? Since we had already ascertained that the crime did not take place there, the most probable reason was in order to throw suspicion onto the family. This idea was further compounded by that conveniently incriminating letter you discovered. That, I must admit, was a very well managed bit of drama. Just difficult enough to find that it appeared genuine.

"Well, of course, once I had established that the letter was a fake, the matter became very simple. The writer had made no attempt to disguise her hand – why should she, when we had nothing to compare it to? – and, really, the amount one can tell about a person simply from their writing is incredible. My studies in this field told me at once that the author was a young woman of around twenty years and this, combined with my list of key-holders, pointed straight to a Miss Lucy Worthing. My Irregulars swiftly confirmed this fact – do you know, they are really most remarkable? I should think Scotland Yard could use something similar, Inspector.

"So. Now I had one definite suspect, all that remained was to make a few enquiries. The shape of the wound on Mr. West's body had instantly suggested to me the idea of a sword and the number of fencing clubs in London is small enough that I could visit each one with a description. Soon I heard of the exploits of a Mr. Frank Temple, a most brilliant swordsman whose background was completely unknown."

"But the duel that killed West," I interjected eagerly. "How did you know about that?"

"It was, I am afraid to say, little more than an inspired piece of guesswork. It seemed to fit with all that I had learnt of Miss Worthing's audacious character, that she would rather face her lover as an equal."

"Lover? If they were in love, why on earth did she decide to kill him?"

"Odi et amo, my dear Watson. All-consuming love can turn to the fiercest hatred startlingly fast. West's mother told me that the foolish young man had been carrying on _affaires de cœur _with two women, one of them being Catherine Penridge. I cannot imagine Miss Worthing was greatly delighted when she discovered this; the sentiments described in the forged letter were all too real."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you seem to have sorted things with your usual _panache _so if you'll excuse me I'll be taking myself back to the Yard to write up that report." So saying, the Inspector shook our hands and strode to the door. Suddenly, he paused. "Just one more thing. That scrap of fabric on the door – did you ever work out what it was?"

Holmes laughed. "I hoped you wouldn't remember that, for it's a point to you, Inspector. It came from Mr. West's coat and was of absolutely no use to me."

"Ah!" exclaimed Lestrade, laughing too. "The devil's in the details, as they say." Tipping his hat, he departed.

With Lestrade gone, Holmes's good mood vanished too. He picked up his beloved violin but could not muster the energy to play a single note before slumping back in his chair.

"Holmes," I said, cautiously, "what did Miss Worthing mean when she referred to your tragic past? Was that mere guesswork on her part? Or…"

I could not continue. Though I know more of Sherlock Holmes than any other man living, with the exception of Mycroft, I am also fully aware that I have by no means the whole picture. Of his life before Baker Street I know virtually nothing, and his intensely private nature has always dissuaded me from questioning him.

"Watson, I'm fine. Fine. Just somewhat exhausted. In fact," he said, laying aside his violin, "I think I shall retire for the night. Goodnight, old friend."

"Goodnight," I called, though his avoidance of the question had done nothing to set my mind at rest. I could not repress a sigh when I considered the mysteries of my friend, though mysteries they would assuredly remain.

______________

_A/N: I feel that this is the place to apologise for misleading everyone with regards to Mrs. Jamieson_ _in the second chapter - I am sorry! Some inner demon kept saying 'Throw more false leads in!' and sometimes I just couldn't help it. Anyway, thank you for sticking with me thus far and I hope you've enjoyed yourselves._


End file.
